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Get Out If You Can
A surf trip to Baja goes horribly wrong
In 1984, I worked the graveyard shift for a luxury tower on Wilshire Boulevard, parking cars. I did it non-stop, six days a week, for almost two years. It got to a point where I was drained mentally and physically.
Landing this job was a stroke of luck and circumstance. There were ten applicants when I applied, but my inside connection, Santiago, who told me about the job, hooked me up. Santiago worked there as well, doing “mechanical” work on the boilers for the building.
The job was perfect for a college student, which I was. Most residents found their way home by ten pm. This gave me four hours to study in relative quiet.
The older Jamaicans working with me on the night shift affectionately called me "schoolboy." Well, more like “skool bwoy.”
They spoke in a dialect I barely understood, but I loved the sound. When they talked to each other, it sounded just like music. I would pester them to teach me the words and then try to copy them through the shift. They, of course, just taught me the dirty words and laughed when I tried to repeat them.
One evening after the "rush" ended, which usually happened around seven, Trudy, the shot caller, pulled me aside.
